


Sickening Desire

by antsu_in_my_pantsu



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Flowers, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person Limited, Pining, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Themes, Underage Drinking, Yearning, mild violence, rampant atheism, shakespearean dialect?? what shakespearean dialect?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antsu_in_my_pantsu/pseuds/antsu_in_my_pantsu
Summary: “Am I a joke to you?” Benvolio’s tone was deeply vexed, yet Mercutio did not cease his chuckling.He sibilated once more, this time with acrimony, “I take no interest in your childish wiles,”The drunk boy, now straddling his struggling friend, gazed at him with impervious eyes, smiled at him with quirked lips, “Then why is it that you allow yourself to play into them with such ease?”-The chronicle of Benvolio and Mercutio’s love from its inception to untimely death.
Relationships: Benvolio Montague & Romeo Montague, Mercutio/Benvolio Montague
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66





	Sickening Desire

**Author's Note:**

> BTW! This fanfic kind of deals with the topic of sexual attraction among minors, and I think I should establish that I tried to handle the subject in a mature way :’) I’m a minor, so don’t cancel me
> 
> Fun game to get alcohol poisoning: take a shot every time Benvolio says “this does not become of you”
> 
> ANYWAY, this fanfiction has been one hell of a ride to write. I originally started this in mid November, and I just now finished it in mid January! I started it around the time I started talking to this girl, and I really liked her, but she ended up cutting things off. Sometimes stuff happens! But that sort of left a bad taste in my mouth when I thought of this fic. 
> 
> I didn’t anticipate this project taking that long, yet it did, and I am SICK of it. I started hating this fanfiction at some point, and while I don’t anymore, I am so fucking elated it’s done. Never again will I write 15k words for a fanfic.
> 
> (I definitely will; that’s hyperbolic). 
> 
> Also, this fanfiction uses a bit of Italian! I do not know Italian, so I got all of it from this (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_profanity#List_of_profanities_in_the_Italian_language) wikipedia article. I am aware it is probably inaccurate, so I apologize to any Italian readers! Anyway, here’s a list of the words used: 
> 
> ✧ Cazzo = fuck  
> ✧ Vaffanculo = fuck off  
> ✧ Che cazzo = what the fuck  
> ✧ cazzatta = bullshit   
> ✧ Frocio = fag
> 
> please enjoy!

Mercutio and Benvolio were eleven years of age when they first became acquainted with one another. 

Romeo had seemingly disappeared into thin air after the church service, one that lasted all too long for restless children like him to tolerate. When he relocated his cousin, he was not alone, for an interesting character stood pridefully at his side. 

“Benny,” youthful Romeo excitedly proclaimed, “This is Prince Mercutio of Verona!”

Benvolio couldn’t help but snigger to himself with juvenile sanctimony, under the assumption that this was another one of his cousin’s childish games. He decided with great haste that the unsightly boy before him could not possibly be of royal lineage.

The boy was an ugly amalgamation of a child, with a round face and a deathly pale, gangly body. His smarmy grin spread wide over crooked teeth almost as white as his skin. His black hair was overgrown, wildly sticking out from every angle. His skinny fingers with knuckles all too big were too busy fiddling with the gold ring that sat on his fingers, as if to intentionally draw attention to it, to flaunt the symbol of his status and wealth. He held himself like a dastardly bastard, nothing in the likeness of Prince Escalus, who Benvolio considered to be a respectable individual nothing like the freak standing before him. 

Although, this so-called freak, shared the prince’s striking eyes, pigmented blue. 

He simpered, “Romeo, I told you, I’m not a prince. I’m merely his kin,” - He turned to Benvolio, - “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Benny. I’m Mercutio, and although I’m not a prince, I  _ am _ of Verona,”

“Do not call me that,” He snapped, “You do not get to call me by that name. Only my comrades,”

Mercutio cocked his head, eyes wide, grin unwavering. 

“My name is Benvolio Montague,” He curtly informed, chin up.  _ That,  _ Benvolio thinks,  _ is how a man of power should act and speak. Dignity, it is the foundation of an individual.  _

“You look like a mushroom,” 

Romeo found this remark to be hysterical and promptly began to howl with laughter, only screeching harder under Benvolio’s scrutinizing glare. 

“He’s right, you know!”

“Make yourselves scarce,” he grumbled, face burning scarlet.

Mercutio joined Romeo in their guffawing, concocting all sorts of insults based on the other boy’s hair.

Bevolio pressed his hands onto his scalp in a futile attempt to hide or tame the brown, curly locks, ones which he had never considered odd, but just now came realized the queerness of. 

Now self conscious, Benvolio vowed that from that moment forth, he would hate Mercutio with every fiber of his being. This boy was a rude dolt who displayed not the slightest bit of compassion nor tact. Benvolio did not care if Romeo foolishly chose to be comrades with such a disagreeable boy, for that was his choice, but Benvolio refused to take any part in it. 

At least, at first he did. It turned out that Mercutio was not another toy Romeo would flagrantly chose to discard once bored. At first, Mercutio and Romeo would only meet every so often. However, their meetings became a biweekly, then weekly, near daily occurrence. The two grew rather close. 

Benvolio was faced with a tough decision: became estranged from his cousin, his only friend, or bite his tongue and tolerate Mercutio. In his petulance, chose the former, yet quickly grew lonely. Despondent. 

He tried wandering the gardens, and at first, that was enough. He learned the name of every flower and worked to commit them to memory.

_ Oleander. _

_ Lily of the valley _

_ Yarrow. _

_ Bleeding heart. _

_ Oleander. Lily of the valley. Yarrow. Bleeding heart. _

Being a precocious child, this task proved much too easy, and he quickly grew bored again. The funny thing is, he could’ve found a way to manage his boredom, but he knew nothing of controlling his spite. 

He hated roses. The first time he saw them, he reached out with a curious, innocent hand, yearning for to take one,  _ just one _ , as his own. The thorns sliced his virgin skin, and he bled, angry droplets spattering into the soil.

_ They grow from my pain. They take my love, and they use it for their own gain. _

The flowers grew unsightly to him, and he vowed to never look at them, celibate to their splendor, for the rest of his living days. This left fewer options for spending his pastime without companionship.

Reading the bible over and over grew boring. Wandering the halls over and over grew boring. Laying on the floor of his private quarters over and over grew boring.

Out of his newfound hatred for tedium, Benvolio chose to accompany Romeo and Mercutio in one of their many adventures one day. The two were surprisingly bearable, even enjoyable at times. Mercutio brought out the childish, brash parts of Romeo, and vice versa, but with the third boy there to quell their combined idiocy, it was a rather functional arrangement. 

Benvolio quickly learned Mercutio was not the fool he initially took him for. He was undoubtedly impulsive, and he held an unparalleled propensity for mischief, even at the expense of others, but those were merely his worst qualities. He also held exceptional adroitness for a boy just shy of twelve, proving himself to be a scarily perceptive individual with his quick tongue and prying eyes. 

Despite his best attempts to suppress these unlikely affections, Benvolio grew fond of Mercutio, even if he did not entirely respect him. He justified it to himself by claiming it was necessary for survival, for surely loneliness would kill him. If he was with Mercutio, he may be annoyed, but he wasn’t alone, and that was enough.

The three boys were inseparable, an unshakeable trio, save for Sundays, when Mercutio was forced to go to mass with his family. 

“This would be so much more fun,” Romeo whispered to his cousin, who kneeled next to him in the pews, “if Mercutio were here,” 

Benvolio huffed. Church was not meant to be fun, he believed. It was meant to be enlightening. It was meant to be a spiritual cleansing, a healing of the ailments that hung over his mind, such as to why he felt strange whenever the older schoolboys helped him study.

Like all things in his life, even his seemingly steadfast opinions on mass would come to change as Mercutio began to routinely sneak out of his own services, not under any sort of surveillance by elders, and join the Montagues in the town’s services for the gentry. 

Mercutio’s behavior proved to be atrocious. With all the irreverence of an atheist (which Benvolio presumed he was), he would sleep during services and ceaselessly talk to Romeo. On the rare occasion he listened to the priest’s sermon, he would frequently criticize the details of what was being said.

“If Jesus is so loving, then why does he hate the Capulet family?” Mercutio half-whispered to Romeo, who sat across the aisle.

Romeo shrugged. “They’re like the Hebrews, and we’re the Samaritans,” 

Benvolio chuckled privately. His cousin was nearly as irrelevant as the heretic prince. The Samaritans were the villains, enemies of Israel, presumed to be wrong. 

Mercutio gave him a funny look, muttering about how Romeo was about as smart as one.  _ Perhaps he is not as foolish as he lets on if he knows the good news,  _ Benvolio thinks. 

Benvolio’s personal hell during mass was being in the presence of Mercutio, but even that was temporary, fortunately. Without fail, Romeo was whisked away by the impish boy after every service as they went to climb trees in their Sunday best, tainting their unsullied garments. Many of Romeo’s shirts, gorgeously embroidered with the Montague house colors of blue and silver, became ruined through his time with Mercutio, a decidedly peccable boy.

Unlike the rowdy boys, Benvolio was content to sit under a tree and read, not very silently judging his two friends’ behavior. He frequently and openly condemned their puerile ways, but his bemoaning proved futile. 

This cycle changed, one day. 

Mercutio and Benvolio were twelve years of age when they first spent time together, alone. 

Romeo, having recently discovered his inexplicable draw to the choir girls at the church, decided he must investigate. This investigation consisted of him following them around and bothering them like a bitch at their heels. 

As soon as the final “amen” was uttered every Sunday afternoon, Romeo was all too eager to jump out of his seat, already racing to flirt with the fourteen year old girls he met in his tutoring sessions. They humored him, they were kind to him, but they held him at arm's length. He was something of an annoying younger brother to the teenage girls of Verona. 

Mercutio found this dynamic to be endlessly comedic, while Benvolio found it to be humiliating. Both parties made their opinions known to Romeo, who brushed them off with a chortle and an eye roll. 

“There he goes,” Mercutio said as his eyes tracked Romeo, who madly frolicked through the aisles to catch up with the exiting girls.

Benvolio grimaces, “He is an idiot,”

“Church is such a bore, how can you even blame him?” The other boy whines, draping himself over Benvolio’s shoulder.

His mouth twitched into a frown. “Church is not supposed to be  _ fun _ , it is a time to enrich your relationship with the lord,” - Mercutio rolled his eyes - “and Romeo’s behavior is atrocious, I think,”   
  
“Is that so?” Mercutio hummed, fiddling with the cuffs of his own shirt, one which he deplored for its stuffiness. He made this fact known to everybody. Benvolio thought he was being overly-critical, for the shirt was adorned with purple lace, unlike the sapphire-silver ribbon Benvolio’s clothes sported.   
  


“It is wrong to pester women into handing over their affections,” Benvolio eyed Mercutio intensely as he snickered, “And I think it is rather unbecoming of royalty such as yourself to allow him to do such things,” 

The black haired boy only hummed at the directness of Benvolio’s words which aimed to upset him. He was not upset.

He suggested, sarcasm dripping from his words, “Then maybe you should show me how to act as you think I should, Ben,”

Benvolio wanted to bark that his name was not  _ Ben,  _ it was  _ Benvolio _ , a strong name for a strong lad, yet he found that nickname was infinitely more palatable than  _ Benny _ , so he let is slide. The two walked through the streets in silence for a long moment. 

Once they reached the orchard, however, Mercutio looked at Benvolio with hungry eyes, his peripherals drinking in every last movement he made. 

With his nose in the air, the Montague said, “I think you should learn to partake in mature activities, as I choose to do every Sunday, for I, myself, am very mature,”

Mercutio stifled a laugh at that. 

Benvolio gingerly sat beneath a tree, the grass compromising under his pristine trousers. He retrieved a book,  _ Reynard the Fox, _ from his satchel, fashioned from crisp, auburn leather. Like his clothes, the bag and the clothes were immaculate.

“Reading?” Mercutio asked, incredulous. 

“Indeed,” He replied, not bothering to suppress his moralizing smirk.

Mercutio huffed as Benvolio flipped through the pages to where he left off, quickly becoming engrossed in the words on the page. The sun was balmy, yet the tree shaded the two boys from its cruel rays, leaving the air comfortably hazy. The dirt was cool, but firm. Butterflies and birds flew overhead, the only moving creatures in the midst of the placidity of Sunday. 

Benvolio was only spared seconds of this peace before Mercutio interrupted the perfect scene.

“I’m boooooooooored,” He whined shrilly, prodding the other’s cheek. 

Benvolio did not abscond his eyes from his book. “What do you want me to do about that?”

Mercutio huffed, drew closer to Benvolio, and began reading, shoulder-to-shoulder. His eyes laid on the page for all of about five seconds before he groaned once more. 

“This story is written in Dutch, Ben. I don’t know Dutch,”

“Pity,”

Mercutio grumbled a few words that Benvolio immediately recognized as ones he learned from older schoolboys, words that Mercutio would have to go to the confessional over. 

Benvolio withdrew an Anglican Bible from his satchel with his free hand, and gently placed it in Mercutio’s lap. 

“Read this,” He jeered, “You are seemingly in need of it, anyhow,”

Mercutio shot the other a glare, but wordlessly opened the bible. 

He drawled, “Genesis 1:1. In the beginning, when God created the universe… Benvolioooo, I’ve read this before, and it’s awfully boring.” 

“Most everybody has read Genesis,” Benvolio scoffed, side-eyeing him, “Just skip that book,”

Mercutio took that to mean ‘skip the first half of the old testament’ as he flipped to a random page about halfway through the thick bible. His lips quirked upwards as his eyes scanned the text, delighted at what was spread before him. Benvolio felt pride swell within his core, trusting the gospel could reach even the most irreligious fellows, even Mercutio. 

“Ezekiel 23:7,” Mercutio spoke aloud, “She was the whore for all the Assryian officers, and her lust led her to defile herself by worshipping Assryian idols. She continued what she had begun as a prostitute in Egypt, where she had lost her virginity. From the time she was a young woman, men slept with her and treated her like a prostitute. So-”

Benvolio battered Mercutio over the head with his own book before he could utter another syllable. Mercutio laid on his side, laughing hysterically at the whole ordeal. He had placed careful emphasis on every word pretaining to sex, such as  _ whore  _ and  _ prostitute,  _ and such concepts, in their foreignity and scandalousness, were hilarious to him _.  _ Benvolio’s face felt hot. He did not like thinking of amorous relations. 

“Perhaps you should not be trusted with any sort of literature, you incompetent buffoon,” He hissed, prudently snatching the bible and stowing it away. 

Entirely disgruntled, Benvolio returned to his own book. Mercutio laid in the grass, silent for a long moment as he pulled out strands of grass with his slender digits.

In a moment of rare stillness, he seemed content to  _ be  _ instead of  _ do _ . 

Mercutio broke this stillness after a moment that felt like forever, returning to Benvolio’s side. He leaned onto the other, placed a hand on his thigh, and rested his head on his shoulder. 

Mercutio didn’t bother to remark on how Benvolio tensed up, tentative under his touch, but he definitely noticed. 

They read a story, this one in English, in the quietude of Verona’s orchard. Mercutio laughed at funny parts or gasped at a surprising occurrence, but these reactions were not intended to be incendiary; they were wholly genuine. 

“King of cats,” He had muttered, “I think I am more like a dog,”

“You are certainly as needy as a bitch,” Benvolio agreed, earning him a playful shove from his comrade. 

They continued to read, the only sound in the air being the rustling of tree branches.

The tender moment was quick to pass when the short fable came to a close, and the next was in German, yet another language Mercutio could not comprehend.

He stood with the utmost melodramaticism, and stretched his arms over his head. He made a show of yawning as if to punctuate his performance of his grave boredom. He frowned at the other’s lack of response.

The vexatious boy placed his boot to the bark of the tree, firmly fitting it against a protruding nub. The bark held under his weight as he hoisted himself against the trunk, scaling the precipitous length with great nimbleness.

“What might you be doing, wicked Mercutio?” Benvolio forced himself to sound as though he didn’t care, despite the fact he cared a lot and was angry. 

“I’m having fun, good Benvolio,” He retorted, hanging from one of the lower branches. 

“You are acting like a complete dolt, and besides, it does not become of you to-”

Laughter bubbled out of his mouth. “I care not of what becomes of me. You should know this by now,” - a cold flicker of devilry crossed his features - “Besides, I think you sit on the ground and moan of how barbaric I act because you know you could not do the same,”

Benvolio clapped his book closed, and he leaped to his feet. Ire burned at his core. 

He growled, “What are you suggesting?”    
  
“I don’t think you have the facilities able to climb this tree, quite honestly,” Mercutio droned. As if to make a point, he swung to another branch and sat atop it. “I think you’re jealous of my strength,”   
  
“I think you should be able to find I would be dead rather than jealous of an individual such as yourself,” Benvolio said sharply, precision cuffing each word.

“Then come up here, and prove yourself,” 

In that moment, Benvolio forgot his plans for a quiet Sunday afternoon, or rather, he simply did not care. He threw his inhibitions and book to the ground, his ego consuming his mind as Charbydis does the ocean. Logic had no place in the mind of an exasperated twelve year old boy’s mind, only rage and revenge.

It was a bit awkward at first, adjusting finding notches and nooks in the bark, fitting his hand or foot inside, and more than once he nearly fell, nonetheless Benvolio caught on with haste and easily met Mercutio at the branch lazily placed himself in, one of the highest in the entire tree. 

He drew breathes ragedly, one after the other, nervous and exhilarated and exhausted and happy. Mercutio wore a shit-eating grin on his face, but Benvolio was much too ebullient to care. He had never felt such joy before, shedding his diffidence, even if only for a moment. 

“I’m impressed,” Mercutio snips. 

Benvolio suppresses his wide grin into something a bit more tame, prideful. “As you should be,”

The two meet eyes, brown on blue. A beat passes. 

“What do we do now?” Benvolio asked.

“I know not,” Mercutio replied, leaning against the trunk of the tree, sitting on the branch, “and I care not. Sometimes, I sit here for hours. Sometimes, I jump down just to climb back up again. Sometimes, I go home. It depends on how I feel,”   
  
Benvolio’s tongue sat dead in his mouth. He was not one to act on emotions, the dreadful things. They were petty, animalistic signs of weakness that he wished to abolish.

“I do not know how I feel,” 

Absentmindedly, blue-eyed boy traced shapes onto the bark of the tree, “Go ask the mushrooms about it, I’m sure those of your kin will understand,”

The Montague huffed and made sure the other boy noticed his insolent eye roll. 

He grumbled, along with other words he knew he would have to go to confession for - “Well, then, I feel I want to go home,”

“Then go,”

Benvolio narrowed his eyes. “How am I supposed to get down?”

“However you so choose,” 

Benvolio jumped.

He landed at an awful angle, nearly breaking his entire leg. His ankle throbbed so terribly he did not even notice the large tear an unruly branch left in his shirt, his Sunday garments. Mercutio cackled so uproariously that he, too, fell from the tree, barely managing to grab a branch to avoid killing himself. Benvolio scoffed with envy. 

He trudged home without bidding Mercutio farewell, not that he even seemed to care. Benvolio wondered if Mercutio was the devil, an apathetic force which only exists to drive people to sin. 

Even while being rebuked by his mother for ruining his best clothes, Benvolio could not convince himself to believe Mercutio was evil. He did evil things, but his heart was probably good under all that pride. 

Besides, he made Benvolio feel alive, and that’s all he really wanted.

Mercutio and Benvolio were thirteen years of age when Mercutio got into his first skirmish.

It was outside in the schoolyard, just after dismissal. The impish bastard himself said something to intentionally aggravate an older student, something of his mother or his sister or his penis (many rumors), and the boy felt his pride had been damaged. Naturally, it was decided to settle this with a brawl, something which Benvolio was strongly opposed to.

Mercutio rolled up his sleeves as his eyes hungrily scanned the courtyard, his pupils clawing the grounds for his opponent. Benvolio had a sinking feeling that there would be little, if any, civility, and that the two would simply engage in combat on sight. 

“Mercutio, I beseech you,” Benvolio sporadically said, pacing as he spoke. He was more anxious than the one who was actually going to do the fighting, “This is a terrible idea. Absolutely awful. You are going to absolutely humiliate yourself,”

The  _ and possibly get hurt  _ remains unspoken, but is still shared in a knowing glance between the two.

“This again? I thought your lecturing was over,” He riposted with a scowl

Benvolio paused his pacing, eyed him, and continued, “Not to even mention this boy is  _ two  _ years your elder-”

“And a Capulet,” 

Benvolio stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face his comrade, moving to grasp his shoulders, “A Capulet? You mean, the same Capulet family that has a feud with  _ my  _ family. You are getting involved in a conflict which you have been specifically instructed to take no part in?  _ That  _ kind of a Capulet?”

“I’m already comrades with your house, I see no issue with fully committing to one side,” Mercutio returns with a shrug, eyeing the other with lighthearted distaste, “And besides, methinks you worry far too much,”

“You have said that thrice over already. I suspect it is because you know you are wrong, and I am right, and you cannot think of a better response.”

He rolls his eyes, “Prideful, are we?”

“Oh, says you,” Benvolio grumbled. 

There was a mutual, silent acknowledgement of the futility of their bickering, thus, it ceased, even if Benvolio continued to gaze at Mercutio as though he was already in a casket. He noticed Mercutio was tugging at his house ring, twisting and turning the band over his finger as he kicked pebbles. 

When Mercutio’s competitor approached the schoolyard, he made himself known by sputtering out a copious amount of swears and curses, the words like water rushing out of a dam.

Mercutio remained silent as the older boy called him names, relatively uncreative ones, and sized him up, close to the point that their chests almost touched. Benvolio worried that perhaps his comrade realized he had bitten off more than he could chew.    
  


A sizeable crowd amassed rather quickly, gossiping of the soon-to-be fracas, some excited and some scared for the younger boy’s sake. Mercutio was still pathetically small with arms that resembled twigs and legs like those of a chicken’s. However, he was sure to make his timely and witty retort, which sent the crowd into a bemused frenzy. The older boy’s expressions turned belligerent at that, every vein in his neck popping under the skin. Benvolio suddenly became grateful neither of the two boys carried swords on school grounds, for Mercutio very well may have died in that moment. 

The Capulet makes the first move, a hook right. Mercutio swerves left. The Capulet aims higher, for the head. Mercutio ducks low.

The Capulet boy was sluggish and his movements were imprecise when he moved to attack. He looked like an oaf, lumbering around, following his overly-excited fists wherever they may land, without coordination. Mercutio dodged with great agility, his looked-down-upon, slim frame now serving him well. The other tired quickly, only landing a few out of his many hits, and only one even visibly affected Mercutio, 

The crowd, first sympathetic to the poor, emaciated boy soon began to rally against him, seeing how he was making a fool out of his elder with little concern. However, the Capulet became inattentive, careless, and Mercutio only appeared more deft in comparison. The public became infatuated with the scoundrel of a boy who unnecessarily stirred trouble, the overdog posing as the underdog. They loved him.

“What kind of game is a might a sick cunt like you be playing?” The Capulet growled, drawing a ragged breath, irate.

Mercutio seemed to ponder this question for a moment, perhaps thinking of a jocular jest to send the crowd into mania. After a prolonged period of silence, he spat on the boy and brought his shoe onto his shoulder, which was quite a feat considering their height difference. The Capulet crumpled to the ground, struggling all the way, but Mercutio had a tyrannical sole. He kicked him once, trice, thrice, hoarsely screeching  _ cazzo, cazzo  _ like a mantra. The people were collectively silent. 

The prince raised his shoe, rearing his leg as though he were about to slam his foot down once more in a final act of ferity, but before he could, Benvolio’s voice broke through his haze.

“Good Mercutio!” He rushed to clench his friends shoulder as he cried out, “Please do not harm a man while he is unable to defend himself,”

A flicker of anger momentarily coruscated in Mercutio’s eyes, blue like the heart of a flame. Yet his visage softened, sobering after having a sip of reason.

Benvolio’s grasp did not yield as he muttered further. “This is simply absurd, not to mention savage. It does not become of you to continue this idiotic fight. Your parents would be ashamed of you,”

Mercutio did not turn to match his eyes. He spoke quietly, bitterness thick on his tongue, “My parents are already ashamed of me,”

“ _ I  _ am ashamed of you,” Benvolio whispered coldly, expending great effort to not sound pained. He had not once seen Mercutio like how he was then, drunk on the delirium of violence.

Mercutio glanced to the boy that lay a few paces away from him, on his knees in the dirt. His face was smeared with dirt, bleeding from several small cuts due to the gravel. His lips were cracked, oozing saliva and more blood. 

Teeth grit, he snarled, “ _ Vaffanculo,”  _ Fuck off. 

Mercutio turned on his heel and left, the crowd parting in his wake. As he crossed Benvolio he muttered, only for his ears, “Ben, let’s go,”

They fled, wordless. The crowd, now awkward and silent, dispersed, going about their daily life with only moderate chatter of what they witnessed. Two rich boys beating the shit out of each other on a sidewalk? A rather milquetoast experience in Verona, the city of hatred. 

Benvolio walked with great haste, speeding through the streets as Mercutio lagged behind. He turns around briefly and notices the other is hardly keeping conscience. Benvolio shoves Mercutio into an alleyway as empty as street they walked on.

His smirking visage contorted into one of pain as he coughed, and Benvolio swore he heard the other’s bones rattling as blood dribbled down his chin. Mercutio scrambled to wipe it away, staining his sleeve and the tender skin of his hand. His hands hovered over his mouth as he spat more blood, the red filling the divets in the concrete.

“You are hurt,” He said bluntly, numbly.

From behind his fingers, “No,”

“It is as plain as day that you are not well,” Benvolio insisted, reaching to aid the other boy.

Mercutio batted his hand away, removing his own in the process. Benvolio’s skin prickled at the sight of blood smeared messily across his comrade’s face, shining on his face and in the cracks of his teeth.

“It’s naught,” 

Benvolio retrieved a square cloth from his pocket, something he believed a gentleman should always have. With great care, he cleansed the blood from the other’s face, dragging the fabric over his cheeks, his lips, the blue becoming carmine. Mercutio was mostly still, trying not to grimace as more blood surfaced every so often, leaving more for his friend to soak up. He was oddly quiet, void of his natural humor. 

He grasped Mercutio’s shoulder, “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Mercutio opened his mouth, then closed it after producing no noise. With great hesitance, he raised his shirt to reveal ribs. An admonishment densely sat on Benvolio’s tongue, ready to criticize for crude indecency, but he swallowed it thickly as his eyes met the bruise. The purple-brown mark seethed on Mercutio’s prominent bottom ribs on the left hand side, salient and angry against his alabaster skin. 

With surprising honesty, he said, “It hurts,”

Too many thoughts buzzed in Benvolio’s immature head, contemplations and inquiries, yet he felt paralyzed. This was something he could not fix. This was something Mercutio caused. If that was true, why did Benvolio feel guilty? 

Gently, he brushed his fingertips over the ailment, breathe lodged somewhere in his chest. The gesture was hefty in nature, but his touch was light, and Mercutio’s heavy breathing did nothing to relieve the atmosphere. 

“Please,” Benvolio started shakily, “never hurt ever again. Never. I do not want to see you in such a state like this for as long as I live,”  _ It upsets me.  _

A really promising, really artificial smile spreads across Mercutio’s lips. His teeth were still smeared with wet red, the blood on his face already crusted on his skin. 

“Of course, Ben,”

Benvolio knew better than to believe him, so he didn’t. He supposes, that’s how it will be. With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and began pacing once more. 

He informed Mercutio as walked through the alley, “You were not yourself, just now. You were intoxicated with bloodlust, as any young lad would be. It is understandable and forgivable.”

“On the contrary,” Mercutio drawled, eyes narrowed, “I felt so entirely myself,

“Because covered in blood and bruises is  _ you _ , aye?” Benvolio spat.

Mercutio continued without a comment, “I have never felt more  _ me _ than when another man was under my boot, trembling with pain,” - He chose not to acknowledge the horrified expression on his friend’s face - “I was far from drunk in that moment. I was the most sober I have ever been,” 

That silenced Benvolio for a long moment. He did not know what to make of what his best friend told him. His closest comrade was an idiot who inflicted pain on others in hopes they’d do the same, and someone who seemingly didn’t mind the taste of blood coating the back of his throat: a sadist and a hematolagniac. 

Benvolio was silenced for years, actually. The conversation was over and they never spoke of what happened in that alleyway ever again.

Mercutio developed other self-destructive, tendencies, though. Despite being a trickster and a philanderer, he grew a taste for alcohol. He didn’t care what the stuff was, he wanted any and all of it immediately. Naturally, this led to one fateful night in which he drank more than a boy who just turned fourteen should, and it was less than fun for him and his courtier, Benvolio.

Before that fine night filled with tripping on air and many bodily fluids that should’ve stayed internal, Benvolio and Mercutio grew rather close, as they spent most of their time in each other’s company. Of course, Romeo and other, distant friends would join them on their adventures from time to time, yet their duo remained a tight one.

Benvolio mourned the death of the trio, the three kings against the world, but this refined couplet was rather welcome. Romeo had grown much too attentive to the desires of his teenage penis, chasing after any woman who spared him a pretty glance. The other two had little time to care of the new woman Romeo was madly in love with each week, so they remained a set of duo. 

It’s not that Benvolio and Mercutio were particularly exclusionary, it’s just that nobody wanted to disrupt their way of doing things. Mercutio does something dumb. Benvolio scolds him. That was the rhythm they lived with, never tiring of the other. It felt like an oddly intimate ritual to outsiders, despite nothing about it being particularly kind. It was simply unnatural to intrude.

Besides, Mercutio was all too eager to form a close friendship with Benvolio, learning of all the things that irritate him, make him tick. Although he’d never admit it, Benvolio begrudgingly accepted that Mercutio was one of the few people that could shatter his cold facade with annoying precision. 

While drunk, his penchant for annoying Benvolio grew tenfold. Mercutio made prudent decisions, the likes of which his dearest comrade had to deal with.

Mercutio and Benvolio were fourteen years of age when the former got absolutely shitfaced drunk.

On the contrary, the latter did not get drunk, no, he very responsibly drank one glass. He insisted a boy of his age was old enough to enjoy the rustic flavors of wine, utilizing it to complement the meal.

Mercutio stole a bottle of wine and some other Russian substance and drank both of them in an empty corridor. 

When he returned to the party, greeting nobles he didn’t know and wouldn’t remember the names of, he was red in the face and seemingly lacking cognitive function. Benvolio now confirmed this was the case as he toted an imbecile of a young man around the streets of Verona, torn between trying to keep him from dying and letting him rightfully perish. 

Benvolio was contented to trudging in silence, suppressing his shame under his boot, burying it into the cobblestone, but the atmosphere was eerie. Mercutio was mute, which meant he was brewing something terrible in that defunct machine he calls a mind. 

“Benvooolioooooo,” He whines, “Aren’t you going to scold me?”

The Montague pursed his lips. He fully expected a follow up, a quip, or something of the sort, but deafness fell over his ears.

“For what? Drinking a gratuitous amount of wine? Or for acting like an insolent dullard? Well, no, Mercutio, I do not believe it becomes of royal blood to act so appallingly, but I was doing well when I was pretending you did not exist, so that is why I have elected not to scold you. You have thoroughly humiliated yourself and your kinsmen, including me. I am seriously considering ditching you here to fend for yourself!”

Benvolio found it difficult to stop his words once they started as they began to pour out, picking up speed. 

“ _ Che cazzo _ … you ass, ” Mercutio grumbled when he thought the other couldn’t hear him (he could). He then proceeded to drone, voice low and candied to a sickening extent with his eyes lidded and words slurred, “Benvolio, kind Benvolio, my sweet summer boy Benvolio, I don’t know where I am. You wouldn’t leave me to wander and mewl and die in these streets, would you?”

“I might,”

Mercutio flung a hand to his forehead, gasping dramatically. He clutched his heart as he lamented, “Oh, the cruelty! The lack of humanity, the absence of philanthropy! Ben, oh, Benny, I could weep!”

He lunged onto Benvolio’s shoulder, latching onto his arm and grabbing at his shirt with great melodrama in his movement. The brunette staggered forward, and Mercutio’s warm hands pressed against his chest did not aid him in steadying himself. 

“Do not speak so loudly,  _ nay _ , do not speak at all, Mercutio. I will deliver you home and that will be the end of this debacle. I pray the pain tomorrow brings will be enough to reform your ways,” Benvolio said, cold, clipped. He did not have the energy nor mental facilities to deal with this shit.

“No, no, no, most generous Benvolio, you are mistaken!” Mercutio counters, “I wish to sleep in the Montague manner. My parents would beat me, whip me, or make me sleep with the pigs if they saw me in such a state as I am now… that is, if they even noticed I was home. Nonetheless, I will be staying with you tonight, I do think, sirrah,”

Benvolio stared at Mercutio, who was firm in his declaration, bewildered at his lackadaisicalness. He couldn’t think right now, nor did he wish to. Taking care of a 14 year old infant was grueling enough as is.

He sighed, spoke, “You may stay in one of our guest rooms very, very far from my quarters. I will hear nothing of it. Do not even dare think of misbehaving,”

“Me? Misbehave? Benvolio, are you mad?”

Benvolio chose not to grace his intoxicated comrade with a response. The effort simply was not worth it. This did not stop the pert boy from continuing their conversation. 

Mercutio detached himself from the other’s side and leered with glassy eyes, “I could make this trek far more enjoyable, you know, and provide entertainment of sorts,” 

He waggled his eyebrows and burst out giggling at seemingly nothing as Benvolio made a sound of distaste.

“Absolutely not,” 

“I am a man of many talents,” The other argued, “I could sing a song most sweet for you,”

“Refrain,”

“I could recite an epic poem,”

“I suspect you do not know any,”

“I could dance!”    
  
Mercutio gave an abysmal clack of the feet and a spin as a testament to his last statement. His recovery from the rather rapid twirl was anything but graceful as he collided with his friend with great force, sending both of them spiraling to the ground. The whole affair made him bubble over with laughter while laying on top of his comrade in the middle of the street. Meructio laid on his chest with their legs entangled, absently grasping at Benvolio’s cloak. The thick material consumed his hand. 

Benvolio was grateful it was so incredibly dark, for his face was a bit redder than could be justified by the frigid air.

“Am I a joke to you?” Benvolio’s tone was deeply vexed, yet Mercutio did not cease his chuckling. 

He sibilated once more, this time with acrimony, “I take no interest in your childish wiles,”

The drunk boy, now straddling his struggling friend, gazed at him with impervious eyes, smiled at him with quirked lips, “Then why is it that you allow yourself to play into them with such ease?”

Benvolio props himself up with his elbows, but makes no move to shove the other boy off, despite a small voice inside of him, urging him to do so. Something about the way Mercutio is resting his own weight on Benvolio made the Montague feel queer. Elevated. 

“Mercutio, cease this. You are not acting as you should,” He commanded, tenuous.

“Benny, I hope you’re aware of the fact that I’m not listening to you at all right now,” Mercutio informed him, “And you still look like a mushroom.”

“For the love of - I - will you-?”

“But you’re  _ my  _ mushroom,” Mercutio’s voice changed in a way that made Benvolio suddenly feel very awake.

Benvolio sweltered at the words, blood boiled him from the inside. His head was in a haze, vaporous, and he briefly wondered if he himself was drunk. 

“You are an absolute idiot,” 

Mercutio laughed, the sonorous sound resounding off the cobblestone streets. He placed one hand on Benvolio’s chest, the other on his shoulder. 

“I’m going to tell you a secret, Ben,” He whispered, breath hot over Benvolio’s neck, “I’m the way I’ve got to be, not the way I’ve ought to be,”

After that, he swiftly absconded himself from the other boy. He offered him a hand when he stood, but Benvolio was quick to push it aside. Mercutio clutched Benvolio’s arm, twisting his golden ring with his bent arm. The duration of the walk was held in silence

When they reached it, they walked through the Montague manner nearly soundless until they reached the stairs, which Mercutio trips on no less than five times.

Benvolio grabbed him by the arm and borderline yanked him down the maze of hallways, tempted to drag him by the scruff of his neck, before reaching a guest room hidden in some far-off corner of the house. 

The two boys stare at each other. 

“Hello, Benvolio,” 

“I bid you goodnight,” He responds, terse.

Mercutio sniggers, “I bid you  _ superb _ night,”

Benvolio stands for a moment longer than is reasonably justifiable. Mercutio looks at him with inquisitive eyes, but doesn’t comment.

Benvolio’s words came out sluggish, as though he was underwater, drowning, “Dream well,” 

“Dreamers often lie,” Mercutio said with a coy wink before disappearing into the room, leaving Benvolio with a dark oak door a few inches from his face.

The sound of glass breaking followed by  _ cazzatta  _ sounded from within. Benvolio made his hasty escape.

That was not the last time Mercutio said such a thing. It became something of a mantra, words that would regularly reside on his lips. Benvolio acted annoyed whenever he said it, but deep in his heart, he was charmed. Mercutio was charming. Benvolio found this to be true, and that was a deeply upsetting. He decided that, should he have been a female, he would find Mercutio to be a most appealing fellow, and under no other circumstances would he ever think such thoughts. 

Mercutio became something of a drunkard, making Benvolio into something somewhere between a courtier and a handmaiden, tending to him when intoxicated. They shared many somber moments of silence, ones that were soused with indescribable intimacy.

Benvolio hated them. 

At least, he convinced himself that he did.

He didn’t.

Mercutio and Benvolio were fifteen years of age when Benvolio realized he was in love.

The sun peered at them from over the horizon as they meandered through the nobility’s communal gardens, air hazy. The occasional cool breeze worked to counteract the balmy sun’s embrace. 

“Ben, what are these fellows called?” Mercutio asked, crouched and pointing at a cluster of pink flowers. 

Benvolio couldn’t stop a slight smile from invading his face as his friend prodded the stem with the lightest of touches.

“Oleander,”

“That so?” Mercutio hummed, tracing the curve of the petals with his pinky.

He proceeded asked him what every single flower was called as he inspected them with the dissecting eyes of a scientist. Benvolio spared them a cursory glance at most; he had seen them before. He found his eyes to be prone to wandering to where they shouldn’t.

They spent dozens of minutes bimbling about the flowers, Benvolio naming each and every one when asked.

_ What’s this? _

_ Oleander. _

_ What’s this? _

_ Lily of the valley. _

_ What’s this? _

_ Yarrow. _

_ What’s this? _

_ Bleeding heart. _

It went on for a seeming eternity, their words blossoming with language of the plants, of flowering, the gilded summer sky blooming with petals.

Mercutio fit in quite well with the flowers, an ornately-crafted persona among other beauteous spectacles, Benvolio thinks. He looks delicate, pale and skinny, sort of like the Amethyst flowers. 

Mercutio looked to Benvolio, the low-hanging sun behind his head, his unruly black hair embroidered by rays of gold lace. 

He smiled, pointed to the roses, and spoke, “I know what those are,”

Benvolio almost choked on his tongue, a dead adder in his mouth cavity. The roses glared at him from the soil, glowing in the honey light of the sun.

“Roses. They’re kind of like you,”

Mercutio outfaced him with wide eyes at that. 

“How so?” He breathes with a softness that shouldn’t be present, “Because I’m pretty?”

_ Pretty?  _ Benvolio thinks,  _ He is not only pretty, no.  _

_ He is a symphony of beauty, a gorgeous fugue of details pieced together by the hand of a loving god. He is a melody, a grey ocean against ivory shores with a black onyx sky, a wilted flower. He has Apollo’s sonnets in the cadence of his speech, Persephone’s pomegranates in his blush, and the raw passion of Zeus’ lightning bolts infused into one body. Like the red or blue or purple rose, he is passionate and ostentatiously garish yet, he has a tenderness, a softness sleeping deep beneath his boldface facade, one which crumbles under a bit too much pressure, tearing, tearing like the petals under a petulant hand. He is adorned with thorns in the form of his bite, his hostility, but they are never to be removed. They are intrinsic to the flower, to him. He will never wear the thorns, he will never wear the crown. He will wear a golden ring, but I will never wear one to match. He is gold, and I am silver. He is the sun, and I am Icarus, or perhaps vice versa. He is many things. He is always too many things, or he is never enough. He’s never what I want him to be, and he’s never what I don’t want him to be. He is awful. He is a blot of ink on a letter, skin burnt from a candle. He is a rusted lantern, a vial dripping with sweet poison. He is the mud on a white shirt covered by a torn cloak. He is broken spectacles, broken mirrors, broken bones, torn petals. He is a flower. He is not an oleander or yarrow or even a bleeding heart. He is a rose, and I should hate roses. I always cut my hands on roses. Whenever I see them, I become overly eager, grasping, grasping for something which I cannot and should not have, and then my tender flesh is punished. Roses are punitive. Roses are cruel. Roses are sadistic. They are reminders of everything I hate and everything I love. They have no right to look so beautiful, enticing, and I am only harmed for pursuing what I want. I hate my desires, and so do the roses. Perhaps the roses hate me as much as I hate them. He is a rose. I hate him. No, I do not. Yes, I do. No, I do not. Yes, I do. No, I do not. Yes, I do. I hate him for how he makes me feel. I hate him for his apathy. I hate him for his aggression. I hate him for his humor. I hate him because he is a dreamer. I hate him for the mature look in his eyes. I hate him for having blue eyes. I hate him for his willingness to cling to my cloak when he is cold. I hate him for wearing my cloak when he is cold. I hate him for looking beautiful in my cloak when he’s cold. I hate him for the way he blushes. I hate him for blushing so little. I hate him for loving flowers. I hate him because he does not love me the same way.  _

_ I hate him because I cannot hate him. _

_ Even though he does not touch me like he touches the flowers. _

_ I do not hate him. _

_ He is not the rose. _

_ Something inside of me is the rose, shredding me from the inside. _

_ I love him.  _

_ I love him.  _

_ Mercutio.  _

_ I love you.  _

Benvolio almost said it.

He raised his leg and brought the sole of his foot onto the rose. He did it again, once, trice, thrice, as he crushed every single petal, stem, stamen, and pistil of every single rose. They laid dying in the dirt, torn and splintering and withering, red petals spattered over the earth. Benvolio showed no mercy as he made sure every single rose in the dozens were slain under his sole.

Mercutio stood there as he did so, impartial to the whole ordeal, and when Benvolio was done, he walked away without a word. 

They never talked about that evening in the flower garden. Not so much as a joke, reference, apology or anything else regarding the event was uttered. They never went back to the gardens.

Mercutio continued to get drunk, much to the dismay of his comrade. He loved to drink, dance, and duel, despite the worsening anxiety of Benvolio, who continued to go to church with a higher frequency.

As they grew older, it was expected of them to go to more functions and meet more women with a handsome dowry.

Mercutio made something of a career with his flirtation, yet he never showed affection beyond that. He was a master at saying nice words and dancing with grace, but he was not one to write love letters or kiss them tenderly or give them a ring. 

Benvolio suspected he himself was going to get courted soon. He did not know what to make of the idea. 

Because of Mercutio’s family’s negligence, he wasn’t paid much attention. Paris and Escalus’ respectives marriages held priority. 

“Methinks I will become a clergyman when I turn eighteen,” Benvolio said to Mercutio one night. 

They were at a gala for some random noble who was a friend of a friend of the royal family. They were often sent to these sort of events as representatives of their families, or simply to show respect. Romeo and Mercutio would flirt with all the women and drink too much while Benvolio quietly watched, brimming with disdain. He couldn’t speak out against their behavior, for his rebukes inadvertently encouraged it. 

Mercutio chose not to participate in his usual activities tonight. This was probably due to Romeo’s absence, for he was on a trip to England until the end of the month.

Mercutio nursed his one goblet of wine as he and Benvolio stood wordlessly, detached sounds in the distance not daring to touch them.

They were sitting on the ledge of balcony in the far corner of the manner in which a wing they probably were not supposed to be in. Now that the exhilaration of immaturely darting through the halls had left them, the terror of seeing their feet hanging off the edge of a precipitous drop was beginning to fill adrenaline’s absence. Maybe sitting on a rickety balcony’s railing was a bad idea. 

It had been fun, though, roving the exorbitant halls with Mercutio, who was constantly cracking jokes and spilling his wine on the floor. He looked good, vivaciousness glowing on his skin as he waltzed through the halls, a gold statue against the stone.

“A theologian?” Mercutio replied and took a sip from his half-drained wine.

“A priest,” 

The royal boy gagged in his throat, a few drops of wine dribbling out of his mouth as he attempted to sturdy himself. He put the goblet down. 

“A priest, you say?”

“Or a monk,” Benvolio added, lacking heart, “I care not as long as I am far from this hellish city,”

“Away from me?” Mercutio offered, his eyes boring into his friend’s. 

There was no response. 

The city was lively despite being well into the evening. It was well past midnight, and the moon was getting ready to abandon the townspeople. Lanterns blazed and people danced to music that sounded remote, nearly nonexistent to Benvolio. Mercutio softly hummed along, tapping his fingers in rhythm. He was slightly off. 

Without warning, Mercutio swung his legs around, placing them firmly on the ground.

“Dance with me, Benvolio,”

It was a command, not an offer or a question, and the usage of Benvolio’s full name was an unsettling sound.

He retorted, without the slightest hesitation, “No,” 

Mercutio narrowed his eyes, but his coquettish grin remained painted on his features. “Oh? I don’t suppose you’re afraid of me?” Mercutio drawled out, lingering on the vowels for a bit too long, “Or is your sickening desire what you take fright at?”

Benvolio considered jumping off the balcony, or at the very least, not giving him the pleasure of hearing a response. He felt as though all the blood in his body had been swilled out of him, leaving him a hollow sack of bones and flesh, unresponsive.  _ Is this what sickening desire feels like? _

“Yes,” 

Mercutio took Benvolio’s nervous hand into his, “Pusillanimous. I won’t bite, even if I could,”

Benvolio reluctantly faced Mercutio, but he did not move to touch him. They shared a look, an empty one that held few words. It was vacuous, for there was nothing to say.

“Do I repulse you?” Mercutio inquired with little tonality, gingerly placing his empty hand on Benvolio’s shoulder. His touch was wispy; perhaps he expected the Montague to pry him off.

Benvolio noted that it was an odd move, to take the feminine role, the part of vulnerability. Benvolio idly wondered if this was Mercutio’s way of submitting himself, but the thought was cast out of his head with great efficacy.

Benvolio allowed his hand to hover over Mercutio’s hip before timidly planting it there. The royalty hummed in affirmation.

Mercutio pulled Benvolio into a dance after a few awkwardly still seconds. Benvolio knew how to dance, but something about the burning sensation in his blood made it difficult to focus. The strange feeling returned, even more unwelcome than before.

“Do you hate roses?”

What should’ve been a stupid, off-handed half-query half-jest from Mercutio hit Benvolio’s sternum like a brick, a dull ache settling in his ribcage. 

“I do,”

“Do you hate me?”

His hand on Mercutio’s grip shifted restlessly. Benvolio did not answer as quickly this time. He hated his hesitance. “No,”

“This may come as a surprise to you, but something tells me you do,”

There was the slightest hint of anguish in his voice, but it was enough to make Benvolio feel as though his flesh was being ripped apart.

“I hate the way you make me feel,”

Mercutio nodded knowingly, “It’s an odd sensation, no?”

“How would you know that?” He hissed, tone icy. 

“Perhaps it feels as though you’re being burnt alive, not unlike a cluster of faggots? Or do you suddenly get the urge to carve your chest open and rip out your heart?”

A lightheaded feeling overcame him, and Benvolio tightened his grip, “Are you mocking me? You know nothing of how I feel,”

Mercutio chuckled at that.

“I think that I do,” He whispered, his face suddenly very close to Benvolio’s, “I know you very well,”

“That is impossible,”

“No, Benvolio Montague, it is not. We are the same, and as much as you wish to ignore it, it is the undeniable truth,”

Benvolio opened his mouth only to close it multiple times over. He doesn’t know what to say, and if he did, he doesn’t know how to say it. Being robbed of the language to describe himself and the aching in his heart was a dagger in his heart as much as it was a means of shielding himself.

“I don’t want to feel this way,” Benvolio uttered, and it’s the most genuine thing he’s ever said.

They sway in silence for an indeterminate period of time with only the moon to watch them. 

Mercutio, with a fond lightness, pressed himself against the railing, Benvolio trailing close behind. He was convinced he was melting, no, wilting, as Mercutio wrapped his arms around the other’s neck, the distance between their lips becoming too short to be considered platonic by any stretch of the imagination. Benvolio felt drunk despite only having drunk one cup of wine hours ago, and he suspected the heat under his skin had something to do with the way Mercutio’s hips were pressed against his. 

Benvolio mumbled after inhaling sharply, “Christ, you are so drunk right now,” 

“I’ve never felt more sober,”

“Goddamn it,” was the last thing Benvolio managed to utter before Mercutio’s lips were upon his.

Benvolio quickly re-learned that nothing Mercutio did was in earnest. He was determined and assertive as he kissed his best friend, sighing as he tilted his head for a better angle. Benvolio came to realize that he had never done this before and Mercutio’s mouth fit too good against his and  _ cazzo, I am going to pass out.  _

The physical act of kissing his best friend was a deeply overwhelming experience. Benvolio felt as though he was choking on honey with none of the sweetness, only bitterness and suffocation coating his tongue. He tears his lips away, breathing hard, and stares at Mercutio. He’s confounded, perhaps saddened or offended as well. Benvolio couldn’t tell. He was dizzy, and the inky darkness blotting his vision didn’t help. All he could think about was kissing the other again, needy for his touch, despite the acrid nature of their first.

“Are you well?” Mercutio asks, uncannily nervous. Benvolio decides he misses the other’s passion. 

He kisses Mercutio again without a word, intention in his movements now. Their noses collide briefly, but neither mentions it. He was steadier this time, ready to submerge himself in whatever  _ this  _ feeling was, ready to risk it all for his friend, his friend who he loved so much, too fucking much. This is what he wanted, regardless of his inner conscience screaming at him to stop.   
  


Mercutio slides onto the railing of the balcony and Benvolio mindlessly slides himself between the other’s thighs. As he did so, he entwined his arms around his beloved in an act of protection. 

The strange feeling Benvolio often had when near Mercutio was thrumming steadily, pulsating in his core. He felt intoxicated, and he suspected it had something to do with the way Mercutio’s warmth enveloped him, or the way he choked a bit when he inhaled, unwilling to let go of the other’s lips. 

“This happened in my dreams,” Benvolio muttered against the other’s mouth, fingers digging into his hips.

Mercutio tittered, the sound light, “Perhaps, dreamers never lie,”

Benvolio turns his head, brows knit. Consternation began festering within his empty stomach, replacing the tingly feeling that once resided there.  _ What am I doing? _

“Even dreams must end, good Mercutio,”

“Not necessarily,” He protested, placing a hand on the other’s chest.

Benvolio scorned the thought and pulled himself off the other boy “You have no more brains than stone,” 

Mercutio grabbed his hand, interlacing their fingers as he flung himself to the floor. On his knees, he looked up to Benvolio, and pleaded.

“And will this night ever-so conveniently slip from your memory? Are you going to pretend  _ this _ didn’t happen, and turn your back on the truth?”

“We have committed blasphemous acts this fine night. We ought to be ashamed,” Benvolio asserted carefully, turning over every word in his mind before it exited his mouth. 

“If my love is sinful, then let me sin,”

The world  _ love _ sent a spark up Benvolio’s spine, a metaphysical scintillation that his body gave a shudder at. His thoughts scattered like glass from a mirror, leaves from a tree, or teeth from a bloodied mouth.

If god made love, and all love is true, then is all truth not just? If what he feels is the ultimate truth, then is it not something ordained by god’s hand? 

“I will join you in,” Benvolio whispered, resolve setting like melted wax in his heart, “whatever this will be, lest nobody else be made known,”

Mercutio rose to meet the other’s eyes, their hands still intertwined as he said, “You and I?”

“Me and you,”

They stood for a long moment, the sun slowly strolling over the horizon, the edge of the universe, chasing the moon away. Mercutio planted a kiss on the other’s lips, light and entirely chaste. 

Warmth trickled into Benvolio’s veins as he said, “It would be for the best if we leave,” 

Mercutio cocked his head, gazing at the other inquisitively, “It is Sunday today, is it not? We can attend the first mass of the day. I reckon it starts in a quarter of an hour,”

Benvolio idly nodded. As he walked through the streets to the Cathedral, standing a foot apart from the man he had been embracing moments before, Benvolio was accosted by his thoughts. They whipped him, beat him, broke his bones, anything to make him feel guilty or heinous.

By the time Benvolio stepped foot in the church, he felt as though he shouldn’t be allowed entry. He convinced himself he and his soul were tainted, and Mercutio’s hungry eyes plastered over every inch of his figure only heightened this sense of uncleanliness. He moved his hand more languidly as he crossed himself, his hand agonizingly dragging across his chest as though weighted by lead. He lost his initial sharpness; he lost the shrewdity he once possessed, the coldness that was woven into his flesh was gone, thawed by his sacrilegious salaciousness. 

These thoughts raged within Benvolio’s skull, a tumultuous warzone which made the corpse of anyone who dare oppose his pride. He should be happy. Truth cannot contradict truth. His feelings felt truthful, but does that make them moral? Was he deceiving himself into sin?

The services ended and even Mercutio was acting reserved. Benvolio wondered if he felt the same, despite the fact he was something of a gnostic. 

Murderers commit actions that stem from truthful feelings, yet they are wrong. Perhaps Benvolio was not true, no, he was truly heinous. 

In a bold move, Mercutio grabbed Benvolio’s hand from under his cloak, squeezing gently, before going on his own way, back to his house. Benvolio’s flesh seared where Mercutio touched it, as though pricked by hornets.

A fortnight passed before Benvolio heard word from Mercutio again, and it was the most painful fourteen days of his life.

Doubt, regret, and guilt slowly crept into Benvolio’s mind, then infecting the rest of his body, claiming him from the inside. His ribs felt heavy and awkward under his skin, skin which yearned for sexual touch. He hated it.

On the second Sunday, he awoke with the sunrise on the day of the lord, dressing himself for another lonely, gut-wrenching service. He felt sick at the thought of sitting alone again, with no-one to accompany him. 

Benvolio felt like he had been thrown into childhood again, completely solitary as his cousin played with the boy descendant of royalty, the boy who made his chest tight and his stomach fluttery.

The boy Benvolio tried to avoid for so long because he was afraid. 

Benvolio was leaning against his bedroom window, allowing the gelid breeze to caress his face, soothe him. It was then he noticed a note, weighted down onto the rim of the window with a rock, scribbled in illegible handwriting. Benvolio gazed at the text.

_ Ben,  _

_ I’ll be paying you a visit  _

_ \- your Rose _

The scratch through the word “your” felt like a blade across his heart. It was a valiant reminder that Mercutio was not his, and never could be. 

At church, Benvolio was completely miserable, misery being something he was beginning to associate with Christianity. Without Mercutio’s presence and Romeo’s humor, he became all too stuck in his own mind. He didn’t feel soothed by the words of the priest, no, he felt targeted. The mask of love that the church wore was beginning to crumble around the edges, the hateful beating heart of the beast becoming visible through the cracks.

He longed to crawl out of his own flesh or peel it from his bones, anything so that he could no longer feel trapped in a suffocating skin of his immoral nymphomania, his illness.  _ Sickening desire _ , those are the words the object of his affection used to describe his infirmity, and he felt they were entirely accurate. 

_ I’d rather be a victim to god than licentiousness,  _ Benvolio thought to himself.

Did he want to die? Is that what he sought? If he cannot escape the thrall of his body’s inclination towards sin, and indulgence in that behavior only made him feel repulsive, was there no winning? Benvolio numbly pondered this, the questions idly turning around in his mind like disgusting food on the tongue.

Benvolio walked briskly after mass, grateful to escape the suffocating clutches of the cathedral as the streets passing around him in a kaleidoscope of colors removed from him. Time eluded him. He blinked and suddenly he was in his room, back pressed against the door, eyes still closed. Despite his best attempts to suppress what he felt, what he’s wanted for so longed for a comforting touch, but not a maternal one. Perhaps… 

“Ben,”

With a flick of his arm, Benvolio reached for his dagger, one which bore his name and the sigil of the Montagues. The hilt was warm to the touch from being strapped against his leg, and for a moment, Benvolio winced. The feeling of warmth on his palm was retchingly familiar. He snapped his hand away on contact, eyes opening with a start.

The boy Benvolio tried to avoid for so long because he was afraid of himself was nonchalantly leaning against the windowsill. God knows how he got into his room, probably by scaling the building or through some other absurd feat. 

The panes were spread open, allowing a breeze to permeate the room, flowing through Mercutio’s black hair. It was cropped short, probably forced upon him by his family, yet it still retained its elegant waves. His eyes rapidly jerked from Benvolio’s hand to his face. 

“Mercutio, why are you here?”   
  
He raised an offended eyebrow, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Answer my question first,” Benvolio fires back, moving to uncloak himself. 

Mercutio gives him a slight smile, a crooked one, “Fair. I came to see you. It’s been quite a while, no?”

Benvolio didn’t like the falter in his timbre as he uttered the final few words, the uncharacteristic softness in his voice. Did Benvolio sound like that when he spoke? Did Mercutio make him weaker, opening him from the breast and carving out his innards, pulling them out between the ribs? _I_ _hate weakness_. 

“Oh, has it? I couldn’t tell,” Benvolio snarled in return. The hostility of his own voice surprised him. He didn’t have the decency to look apologetic, though.

“I longed to see you,”   
  
“And yet, you did nothing of the sort,”

Mercutio narrowed his eyes, tone pointed “Christ, you act as though I had a choice. My parents stowed me away for a month. They were very much cross with me on account of my ‘insolent behavior’ that I’ve apparently been displaying as of late. And no, Ben, they do not know of our affections,”

He tacked the last sentence on at the end of his explanation upon seeing Benvolio’s face contort into something like animalistic petrification.

“Your affections,” Benvolio hurriedly breathed as he hung his cloak, “Not mine,”

Mercutio jumped down from the windowsill, landing lightly on his feet. His boots clacking on the floor was the only sound produced in the room. 

“Benvolio, what is the matter with you? I thought you would be glad to see me. I certainly know I missed you, ”

His words trail off, his cadence reverting back to that of fondness, tone velveteen. Benvolio’s blood smoldered at the sound of it, and he was unsure if it was ire.

“Mercutio, because we are… comrades-”

“Is that all we are?” He interjected.

“Shut up,” He took a moment to regain his composure before intoning, “I will speak to you with the utmost honesty…I have been thinking about the nature of our relationship, and I have decided that it is wrong, to start,”

Mercutio sneers at him, “You’ve always been a foolish moralist, listening to whatever was spoon fed to you,”

“You have no right to judge me, considering you are an atheist  _ frocio _ ,” 

A sick satisfaction overcame Benvolio as he uttered the words, didactic, and saw his dearest’s face contort into something deeply saddened, then disdainful.

Mercutio scoffed at that, brushing his black sea of hair out of his face, “God, you know so little of me because you’re so quick to assume you know everything,”

“You mean to tell me you believe in god?”

“Christ, does it matter?” Mercutio cried, “Yes, I believe in some sort of god. A cold, cruel god who created us just to suffer . A god as absent as my father, a god as disappointed in me as my mother. Is the god who allows poverty and war and crime and oppression your lord? Is that the lord you weep before?”

“It’s the lord who will judge me when I die, so yes, of course,” Benvolio sibilated, furious at his comrade’s blasphemous words, “It is no fault of mine that you are an… intemperate individual. I have chosen to pursue righteousness, while you have chosen the vulgar. We are not the same,”

Mercutio slowly sauntered to the other man as he drawled mordantly, “If I recall correctly, you promised me something rather important  _ that  _ night. I think us to be rather alike,”

“Wench,” Benvolio barked, panic tightening around his lungs, “You seduced me,”

“You allowed yourself to be seduced by the allure of love,” Mercutio countered.

Benvolio laughed, incredulous and afraid, “That is so stupid and pretentious. It is so obvious you are obsessed with yourself,” 

“I may be stupid, pretentious, and self obsessed, sure, but that doesn’t change the fact that you  _ wanted me _ . That you  _ needed _ me. That you  _ love  _ me,” Mercutio opined, ferocity flickering in his voice to a threateningly accusatory tone.

“I,” Benvolio looked straight forward and all he saw was blue, the most brilliant sapphire blue that enveloped him completely, “do not love you,”

“You’re a fool, Ben,” Mercutio coldly whispered, “You deny the truth, you deny yourself, and for the sake of what? Elitism? Your petty ‘faith?’ Or do you just hate the idea of being in love with me that much?”

_ It is not you I hate _ . 

“This is not love!” He screeched in return, voice hoarse as his throat constricts. His sentence is punctuated with a desperate gasp. Tears, a deluge of them, spill over the rims of his eyes, pathetically down his face as he sniveled out, “This is a surrendering to immorality and vice. I will not be such a coward as to become a slave to my desires, no matter how much this worthless, filthy body or my witless brain wants it,”

Mercutio wordlessly stared forward. All he did was place his hand on Benvolio’s, grasping his wrist. He does not move to interlock their fingers. Benvolio grit his teeth at the gesture, but did not pull away.

“And you caused this,” His innards twisted as Mercutio’s face distorts into one of agony, raw and real, as he slowly spoke, “You tore my heart open and filled my naive mind with pretty lies and empty promises of affection. You are the nuisance who has caused me to feel in such a vile way,”

“What  _ do _ you feel, Benvolio?”

For the first time in a while, Benvolio did not only give a perfunctory look, but he perceived. He saw Mercutio’s own eyes obscured, black hair unkempt and wild over his face, which was blotched with red and glazed with tears, the flow of them thick. He did not resemble the handsome, cool man he usually presented himself as. He was fractured, exposed, and vulnerable. His hands trembled; Benvolio felt the quivering against his own.

Something deep within Benvolio snapped in that moment, something that made him feel as though every single one of his ribs were broken. He choked out a breath, but the motion hurt. His lungs ached, or was it his stomach? His whole body hurt, pulsating in a dull rhythm under the flesh that he despised so deeply. 

Benvolio cried out as he wept, the sound jaggedly cutting through the air. It was a cry of raw agony, as though the knife in his hand truly was lodged in his side, slicing apart his organs, bile and blood dripping down his hand. The noise elicited from the experience formerly described would have been sonorous in comparison. This was a sound of rotting flesh and trampled flowers and splintering bones, mutilation and desperation.

Benvolio lamented over the death of himself.

Mercutio moved to comfort him, extended an arm. Benvolio allowed him to grasp his shoulder, and hated himself for leaning into the touch. 

“Why are you still here? You can leave,” he jibes contemptuously, “I am not your keeper,”

Mercutio hummed at that, the sound hollow, “The keeper of my soul, maybe,”

Benvolio’s mind was made inert at that. In a swift motion, he twined his arms around Mercutio’s waist, enveloping him into a bittersweet embrace. He wept, and Mercutio embosomed him with tenderness. 

“I cannot stand another moment of feeling like this. I cannot bear it. I feel unclean, as though my very existence was a mistake. I hate being this monster that I am, victim to sin, and I cannot take this agony anymore. I do not know why I am this way. I just know that I would give  _ anything  _ to be different,”

“I know,” Mercutio said, low and subdued, “I once felt that way, and sometimes I still do. Not having the language to describe how we feel, it’s difficult, no? But I decided to stop fearing myself. And if you let me, then…” 

His words trailed off, and it was unclear what he intended to say next. Benvolio didn’t want to weigh the options, he was far too exhausted for that. He wanted something concrete, tangible. Benvolio kissed him. 

He brought his hands to cup his jaw in what could be best described as a caress. Mercutio inhaled sharply at the unexpected contact, but quickly adapted and kissed back with fervor. He tightened his arms around Benvolio’s shoulders, bringing their chests close, hearts beating in unison. 

Benvolio was the first to draw away. He looked like shit,  lachrymose and red from crying, and he was grotesquely sleep deprived, but Mercutio shamelessly grinned. To him, Benvolio was beautiful. 

“Are you well?” Benvolio asked, voice shaky.

Mercutio absently laughed, and lazily pressed his lips to Benvolio’s in a half-kiss, half-murmur, “I feel most wondrous,”

Benvolio diffidently placed his hands on the other’s hips, which earned him another kiss, and another after that, and  _ fuck,  _ he was growing drunk on the way Mercutio’s lips felt against his, assertive in a way Benvolio could never be. All he could think of was Mercutio, his childhood best friend, the object of his affections, and his lover. In lieu of any sort of meaningful apology, this would be sufficient for now.

“Stay. Until tomorrow morning,” Benvolio borderline begs, holding Mercutio close, fearful he would leave again, “Nothing needs to happen. I - I just - I cannot stand being away from you anymore,”

Mercutio is silent for a seemingly perpetual moment, the air stiff, but he gives a wordless agreement by leaning against Benvolio’s shoulder, his head in the crook of the other’s neck. 

It was pleasant, laying and sleeping next to him, completely lost in the warmth of his body. Benvolio felt like a child again, scared of himself, but this time he wasn’t alone. He made a decision in Mercutio’s arms that night, that he was no longer going to play by the rules of another’s game. He was completely autonomous now. 

With that very important change of heart, Benvolio’s life transformed before his eyes.

If they were inseparable before, they might as well have been soldered together once their relationship was actually allowed to blossom. There was never “Benvolio,” and there was never “Mercutio,” only “Benvolio and Mercutio.” 

That being said, a fair amount of healing was in order. Mercutio was stubborn and Benvolio was self-important, so apologies were foreign to the both of them. They made it work, though, and things fixed over time with mutual work from both parties. Numerous things about the nature of their relationship changed as it grew increasingly involved. 

For one thing, Mercutio became far more willing to show Benvolio affection. In the time they spent together, there was an ample amount of hand holding, brushing his hand against his jaw, and shoulder touches to be considered remotely socially acceptable, but the two faced no confrontation. Most people dismissed their affection as a fraternal love, as it was well known they were friends since childhood. 

They spent a lot of time in the orchard or the gardens, merely walking and whispering sweet nothings. There needn’t be any grandeur about their love. For one thing

And when nobody was looking, Mercutio never hesitated to push or pull Benvolio into an unseen alleyway and kiss him senseless. 

That was tonight.

Mercutio and Benvolio has been trapezing throughout the city after stealing a bottle of wine and ditching the party they were supposed to be attending. They walked through the city, taking swigs and chattering about nonsense. Step #1 of autonomy: get drunk every once in a while and stop giving a fuck.

“I’m cold, Ben,” he mumbled as he absently fiddled with his ring. 

No matter how often Mercutio and he found themselves close like this, it never got easier. The guilt subsided over time, but the mind-numbing intoxication that Mercutio inflicted within Benvolio only grew stronger. 

“What do you want me to do about that?” He asked stupidly.

Mercutio fisted his hands in the other’s cloak, drawing him in. 

“Goddamnit, you’re an ass,” He breathed, “I want you to kiss me,”

Benvolio’s brain had completely detached itself from his body as he placed his hands on the small of Mercutio’s back. He was definitely drunk on something, and he didn’t know if it was the wine or his sexual anticipation. He rattles out another stupid comment paired with a lopsided grin. 

“And what if I said no?” 

Mercutio gave him an inquisitive glance which quickly crumbled as Benvolio pressed his face into the other’s neck, gently kissing down the hollow of his throat starting at the curve of his jaw. A strained noise sounded from within his mouth, muffled by his teeth, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

They stumbled into a long-deserted alleyway, Mercutio’s body caught between the cold of the building and the heat of the other man.

“Do as you please, Ben. We’re away from any prying eyes now,” Mercutio mumbled, haughty. 

“Prying ears, too, I hope,” Benvolio responded, teeth scraping against the other’s tender flesh, “You get so loud when we do… this,”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” He laughed dryly, the sound vibrating against the other’s warm mouth.

Benvolio was grateful he was already blushing from the cold, for the comment made his face flush, “You talk far too much,”

“Then shut me up,”

The two mutually and ravenously connected their lips in a kiss, one that begged for more contact. Mercutio keenly tangled his slender fingers into the other’s curly hair as he slid one leg over his waist. There was very little keeping their hips apart, and  _ fuck  _ if Benvolio didn’t want to have his way with him right here, right now.

He found it satisfying to watch Mercutio let down his composure for him alone. It didn’t take long to discover what made Mercutio tick, what left him with his mouth agape and eyes glazed over in ecstasy. 

They kiss for a seemingly indefinite amount of time. It was only when Mercutio’s  _ coy  _ hand slithered up Benvolio’s shirt did he come to his senses, yet it was too late, as he had unwittingly produced a vulgar noise low and deep in his throat. Mercutio smiled against his lips, pleased with the incendiary nature of his actions.

“Excited, are you?” He simpers, gesturing downwards with esurient eyes, “You’re like a bitch in heat,” 

“Mercutio, I hope you know you are going to kill me one day,” 

He tittered at that, “A little death never did anyone harm,”

Benvolio immediately picked up on the fact Mercutio spoke that last sentence in French. Based on the coy grin plastered on his lover’s smarmy face, he assumed it was probably something obscene, unfunny, or a combination of the two. 

“Speak in a language I understand, you knave,” He grumbled, rolling his eyes. 

“ _ Cazzo _ , if you insist. How about this, then?” Mercutio’s demeanor darkened almost visually, “I want to have sex with you,”

Benvolio swallowed, the saliva suddenly very scarce in his throat. He unheedingly dug his fingers into Mercutio’s sides. “Okay,” 

He never quite got used to the forwardness of the other’s comments. Mercutio knew nothing of taste or subtlety. Every single thing he said landed like being beaten over the head with a brick.

Mercutio only gazed at him with puckish eyes, expectant. 

Benvolio grabbed him by the wrist and led him out of the alleyway. He flinched at the night’s cold breeze, having already grown so accustomed to Mercutio’s warmth. 

“You know, Mercutio, we are almost seventeen years old,” Benvolio chided lightly, “I think it is rather unbecoming of the two of us to act like we did when we were fourteen,”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care,” 

Mercutio interlocks their hands. He does not think of the risk. That is a burden reserved exclusively for his lover.

“I do not know how long-” Benvolio kicks a rock with unwarranted aggression “-we can go on like  _ this.  _ My parents have been speaking of arranging a marriage for me, and I can only assume yours are in the like. I just - I simply do not think-”

“Benvolio. Benvolio, please look at me,”

He turned to look at his lover, who pressed their foreheads together. They held that position for the briefest of moments before pulling away, swaddled in the darkness of the cobblestone streets. 

“I love you, and that’s all that matters,”

Benvolio averted his eyes, nervous, and nodded in a non committal sort of way.

He did not say the three pretty words back. 

He was grown now. He couldn’t fool himself with childish fairytales of love conquering all, for he knew they were fictitious falsifications of reality. He knew better than to live an idealist fantasy world, and for some ungodly reason, Mercutio did not, and that’s what bewildered him. 

That’s why Benvolio never said the words. 

That would come to change. 

Mercutio and Benvolio were seventeen when Benvolio admitted he was in love. 

Benvolio had been sleeping, swaddled in blankets, when Mercutio casually slipped in his window, left unlatched out of habit. He had only just fallen asleep, as the infamous trio had been out rather late at a party. Romeo got entirely too drunk, and rambled of how badly he was yearning for a fair maiden all the way home. It took too much bargaining than desired, but eventually Benvolio forced him to retire for the night. He was exhausted. 

“Ben,” Mercutio hissed, the moon radiant behind him, tracing his form with silver. 

A singular eye creaked open. He was not surprised, but rather moderately annoyed. He was about to be swept away in another one of Mercutio’s impromptu near-midnight trysts.

“What do you want, you ass?”

Mercutio rolled his eyes in an over dramatic manner, “It’s your birthday,”

That was news to Benvolio, for the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. At all.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, you dolt, it is. Now come with me,” Mercutio pulled on Benvolio’s resistant hand, which was desperately trying to escape to the sheets once more. 

A fair amount of pleading and and tugging on several limbs later, and the borderline somnambulant boy was following his lover out the window. 

Mercutio, from the outer sill of the window, climbed onto the roof and made his way across it. Against his better judgement, Benvolio looked down to see the street a sickeningly precipitous distance away from his current position.

He shrilly whispered, “Mercutio, are you insane?”   
  
“Yes, now follow me, and don’t ask questions,”

He held out a hand to Benvolio, the other steadying himself on the steep roof. Benvolio accepted it, but made sure to complain about how inadequate their deaths would be if it was from falling off a roof in the middle of the night. 

Surely enough, the two boys climbed across the Montague manner roof with little difficulty and no fatalities. Mercutio had led his lover to a balcony on the far side of the mansion, one which was scarcely occupied. 

Once settled on the flat earth, Benvolio noticed a few things.

This balcony was not destitute of ornamentation. There was a singular, lit candle meagerly burning on the floor atop a gilded purple blanket. On its lonesome, a rose sat next to the candle. It’s petals were a vibrant shade of red, and the bottom cut appeared to be oozing a liquid in a noncommittal fashion. It was cut fresh. 

Mercutio was smiling, his toothy grin overtaking his prideful features. For a moment, he looked startlingly similar to the child Benvolio hated six years ago.

“What is this?”

Mercutio gestured to the candle, blanket, and rose, “A thing I did,”

Benvolio opens his mouth to point out the vague and decidedly unhelpful fatuousness of that sentence, but Mercutio’s lips silenced him before he could produce the words. The kiss was chaste, but loving. Mercutio was the one to pull away, looking at the other boy with fond eyes. 

“I love you,”

At that, something cruel constricted in a cavity in Benvolio’s chest, and the tightness strangled him a little bit.

“You are all too careless with your words,” He scolded.

Mercutio inanely countered, “Only for you,”

They stood in thick silence, neither of them approaching the scene before them, as if afraid of intruding in some sort of holy space. Mercutio was the first to move, moving to the blanket with languid strides. He looked at Benvolio expectantly

“Come sit,” He said with an uncharacteristic  amiableness, cerulean eyes sharp. He crossed his legs, gesturing to the space beside him.

Benvolio approached him, bones creaking as he hesitantly walked. A discordant symphony of thoughts cluttered in his mind, pounding behind his heavy eyes, all bleating the same question: what does he have planned?

Once Benvolio was settled atop the blanket, Mercutio wasted no time in swinging his leg over the other’s thighs, straddling him. He made no move to touch or kiss him, no, he merely sat there, leering and subtly thumbing his gold ring. 

Benvolio’s skin grew fervid under the weight of his lover. “It this another one of your salacious schemes?” 

“No,” He bluntly responded, eyes unceasingly perspicacious, “I just want to look at you,”

“Goddamn dolt,” He muttered with a good-natured grin, eyes on the stone balcony. 

“I have some questions for you, Benvolio,”

The words struck like icicles into his skin, pricking and stabbing. 

He swallowed thickly and managed a few words, “On with it,”   
  


Mercutio gave him a smile, remarkably bashful. It was incongruous with his sharp cheekbones and sapphire eyes. 

He said, “Do you only show me affection for my affluence?”   
  
Benvolio’s brow furrowed at that, and unwittingly, he snorted. It was a question of immense buffoonery, one which seemingly came from nowhere. 

“No, obviously. If I only sought wealth,” he avered, “I could get it with greater ease from somebody who is not a complete jackass,” 

Mercutio nodded, expression blank, “Grand. But are you using me for… any other intents?”

For the first time in Benvolio’s life, he witnessed Mercutio blush from something that wasn’t alcohol. He also felt personally attacked, for it felt as though Mercutio was attempting to communicate he wasn’t happy as his lover. Had he done something wrong? Had he wronged him? The thought was sickening.

“Is something wrong, good Mercutio?” He inquired, doing his damndest to keep the strain out of his voice.

Softly, he replied, “No, no, darling, you haven’t done anything wrong,”

“Then what is the meaning of this?” Benvolio clenched his hands, the skin blooming ivory as it contorted over the knuckle. He was growing tired of his lover’s wiles.

“I want to be with you forever. I want to die with you,” Mercutio asserted.

There was silence. 

He continued, his words stronger now. “And for once, I wanted to think through my decision before I do something recklessly, as you always say I am,”

Benvolio was wordless verbally, but internally, his mind was rampaging with a flurry of useless thoughts. He wasn’t able to make out what Mercutio even said at first due to the cacophonous ringing that was occurring within the confines of his skull. 

Lamely, he managed to get his tongue and teeth to say, “I do not believe I understand what you are getting at,”

“Say you love me,” Mercutio said without wavering, humor void from his tone as he slowly removed the gold band from his finger, “and I’m yours forever,” 

The ring sparkled under the caress of the moon, the white light dancing over the crudely-cut gemstones (some sort of topaz or sapphire) and intricate gold carvings. Benvolio, compelled by some unknown force of nature, clutched the now-heavy ring that sat on his own finger, but did not remove it.

With an emollient touch, Benvolio brought his hand to his lover’s face, the skin cold, sharp to the touch. Mercutio’s hair fell in obsidian waves over his hands, the curls consuming Benvolio’s fingers. For the first time, he noticed the lethargy that made resided in the other’s eyes, sitting thick under the skin. Mercutio smiled, perhaps a bit nervous under the scrutiny of his lover. His teeth were still crooked, and the cupid’s bow curve of his lips still stretched the same as when they were ten years old.

His appearance was cadaverous at best, as though bits of his soul were long gone, leaving only a fragmented corpse of a man. For the briefest of moments, Benvolio felt complete dread overwhelm his senses, and he panicked, as he was unable to recognize the dead man that he held in a caress. 

But after the feeling subsided, he felt himself drawn into reality, anchored by the weight and warmth Mercutio placed on his hips. 

“I love you, Mercutio,” 

At that, he smiled blithely, the softness fitting odd on his harsh features, and kissed his lover. 

Benvolio was grateful, if anything. After uttering the words, he felt hundreds more sprouting on his tongue, threatening to topple out of his mouth, one hundred compliments, one thousand sonnets, and one million more  _ I love you _ ’s. He, in that moment, could’ve gone on about every single one of his thoughts about this boy. 

Benvolio closed his eyes, mantled in the homeliness of the other’s body, the way affectionate tendrils of warmth wrapped around his chest, choking him, drawing him in. Logically, Benvolio knew Mercutio didn’t taste much like anything, yet he couldn’t help but taste the sweetest honey whenever his lips were upon the other’s.

Mercutio parted from and languidly took Benvolio’s hand into his own. He slipped his gold ring onto the other’s finger. The band fit a bit snug at first, but it took little time for Benvolio to become accustomed to the security it provided. 

The symbol of his family, his affluence, and his status now sat on Benvolio’s finger. He relinquished all of it with such ease; he relinquished all of it  _ for him _ . 

“Forever,” He whispered, and although nothing more was said, both understand what it meant,

Benvolio removed his own ring. His eyes caught Mercutio’s, and there was an unspoken agreement between them in that moment. He faintly took his lover’s hand, their palms barely touching. 

“A little secret,” Mercutio muttered, naked hands fidgeting, “Just between us. Nobody else will know, nobody will punish us. This will remain our act of violent protest and godlike love,”

Benvolio held his breath as, with the utmost care, he slid his own ring onto Mercutio’s finger, the silver melting into the ivory flesh. His hands trembled as he did so, not out of fear of uncertainty, but out of the overwhelming certainty that every cell in his body was screaming. Forever couldn’t come soon enough.

He barely moves his hand before Mercutio’s lips are upon his, sighing deeply into the other’s mouth, breathing him in. They roll to the ground, Mercutio on his back and Benvolio half-on top of him, one arm on either side of his torso. The Montague pulls away first, and the throaty whine Mercutio produced in response makes him feel dizzy.

He stared at his lover’s face, and his lover stares back, statuesque in the moonlight. He was luminescent, a shimmering and idle image of perfection cloistered from a cruel world in his lover’s arms. A cursory glance would not suffice Benvolio’s insatiable hunger, his desire to drink in all of Mercutio. Forever. 

The prince laughed dryly and turned his head, “Stop looking at me like that. I feel as though you’re going to eat me or something of the sort. You look ravenous,”

“I am,” Benvolio breathed out, mouth moving unwittingly, with little forethought. He couldn’t give less of a fuck about his dignity right now. 

At that, Mercutio raised an eyebrow, an amused sort of smile spread adorning his face, “Since when have you become so bold?”

He hesitated before saying, “I do not have a clever response for that,”

With a hearty chuckle, Mercutio kisses him again and again and again, the two entangled together for a single second and all of time itself. They were both on display for Verona and hidden from any prying eyes, exposed and closed away.

Midnight passed some time later. They spent the duration of Benvolio’s birthday kissing and laughing and bullshitting until the sun rose, and then walking the length of the gardens, drinking stolen wine in the orchard. Romeo joined them at some point, proceeding to endlessly tease his cousin for the hours to come.

Sometime later they stumbled into the townsquare, kicking rocks on the street. Mercutio’s arm was twined around Benvolio’s shoulders in a manner that was anything but brotherly, but the questioning eyes spoke for themselves.

A party of Capulets stood among the townspeople. Benvolio couldn’t help but roll his eyes, disillusioned by their pseudo-tough act. They could swing their swords all they want, but they were an overly-emotional and pathetic bloodline, in his opinion. They were worthy of nothing, especially not one’s time. 

Romeo did not agree, however, as he proceeded to greet them. He must’ve been drunk or stupid or  _ something  _ because he went as far as to idiotically claim to be a kinsman of theirs. He rambled of his love for a Capulet, forbidden but genuine. They did not like this, naturally. 

Mercutio, moved to join Romeo, either to help his comrade or provoke an enemy, both of which were of equal importance to him. 

Benvolio grasped his wrist, tight, his gold ring digging into Mercutio’s flesh.

In the lowest of voices, he muttered, “This is a bad idea, darling,”

With a flashy grin and provocative eyes, Mercutio responded, “I’ll be fine, Ben,”

And then, roses engulfed Benvolio’s vision.

Petals. There were so many of them spilling from Mercutio’s side, clinging to his trembling fingers and torn clothes, spattered down the length of the Capulet’s blade. Cerise petals plunged to the floor with uncanny weight, flooding over the cobblestone streets.

With hands, hands blooming with dozens of red roses, Mercutio removed the silver band that sat around his finger. He clutched it tightly with a feral sort of desperation Benvolio wish he hadn’t had to see. 

He looked to Benvolio with blank eyes, hardly blue, already vacuous, dead. A red petal fell from his lips, staining his white shirt, once pristine. 

I’m sorry.

He didn’t say it. He mouthed it with lips that moved only slightly, but it was enough. It was all he could manage before he took a knee and crumbled to the earth, body hitting the ground hard. 

Benvolio prayed for the first time in months, for a benevolent god to kill him. It does not become of Mercutio to die like this, unpoetic. Small.

_ My rose, gone forever.  _

Benvolio is eighteen years of age when his beloved Mercutio dies.

**Author's Note:**

> I have made my grand return after two months, and holy shit! I am moderately disappointed with this. 
> 
> I kind of really hate how I dealt with the topic of internalized homophobia. It’s something I’m very familiar with as a lesbian at a Catholic school, but I just don’t think I explained it well enough? I’m really sorry if this comes off as being in poor taste to anyone because honestly, I didn’t really do the topic justice.
> 
> Anyway, listen to my baller Mercutio playlist [https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3g1KjhmikoLptpC6TQxbgs?si=O2ml1hdWS5KmDIpx3N-o8  
> ]
> 
> A list of allusions + references:   
> ✧ “Romeo shrugged. ‘They’re like the Hebrews, and we’re the Samaritans,’”- this is kind of a complicated one! Basically, Samaritans were hated because they were seen as impure monsters by the Jewish Israelites due to the fact they were half-Jewish. However, Romeo is implied to be foolish when he claims the Montagues are Samaritans because he’s only thinking of the story of the good Samaritan. He doesn’t realize that Samaritans were villains most of the time, and that the story of the good Samaritan was a subversive tale, not an example of how all Samaritans were. Basically, Romeo’s a fucking idiot for not getting the historical context of Samaria and Israeli conflict   
> ✧ “He retrieved a book, Reynard the Fox, from his satchel…” - META! Reynard the Fox was a popular book in Shakespeare’s day. Tybalt actually gets his name from a character in this book, Tibert/Tybalt, who is the king of the cats (hence, why Mercutio calls him that in the original play).  
> ✧ Ezekiel 23:7 - That was a direct quote from that book from my Episopalian bible :,) It’s a huge fucking meme with me and my friends   
> ✧ “‘King of cats,’ He had muttered…” - Another reference to the content of Reynard the Fox, specifically the character Tibert/Tybalt  
> ✧ “as Charbydis does the ocean” - A reference to a character in Greek Mythology, namely The Odyssey, who consumes the ocean once per day! She’s basically a big, gaping mouth that sucks in water  
> ✧ “He kicked him once, trice, thrice, hoarsely screeching cazzo, cazzo like a mantra.” - This one is kind of complex! So, I could be very wrong, but I learned from wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_profanity#List_of_profanities_in_the_Italian_language) that “cazzo” means “fuck.” HOWEVER, I learned from THIS wikipedia article (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tybalt) that the word “cazzo” also means cat or something like that. That is important because Mercutio calls Tybalt “king of the cats,” so I think that has the double entendre of calling him a fucker, or something of the sort. I don’t know Italian and I don’t fully understand the mechanics of cazzo as fuck/cat, but whatever! I decided to incorporate some Italian as a complex reference to the source.   
> ✧ “Verona, the city of hatred.” - A reference to Romeo et Juliette, specifically the opening song and also La Haine, in which Verona is referred to the city of hatred.  
> ✧ “Benvolio mourned the death of the trio, the three kings against the world” - Another Romeo et Juliette reference, specifically to Les Rois du Monde   
> ✧ “‘I’m the way I’ve got to be, not the way I’ve ought to be,’” - Super baller Mother Mother reference B) this is a line from Chasing it Down by Mother Mother, and it really resonated with me!  
> ✧ “‘Dreamers often lie,’ Mercutio said” - Back to referencing source material! This is a line Mercutio actually has in Act I, so I decided to incorporate it  
> ✧ “He will never wear the thorns, he will never wear the crown.” - A reference to the bible, specifically the episode in which Jesus is mockingly dressed in purple robes and a crown of thorns.   
> ✧ “sickening desire” - These are lyrics from a Troye Sivan song! I don’t recall which one because I’m not a big stan :,)  
> ✧ “gnostic” - uhhh basically a religious ideology centered around the idea that only the soul matters, not the body. Some gnostics choose to take the worthlessness of their corporeal body to mean that they should reject all the pleasures of life, while some overly indulge themselves in any licentious desires they have. I imagine Mercutio is something like the latter. Please note, gnosticism has nothing to do with agnosticism  
> ✧ “He tittered at that, ‘A little death never did anyone harm,’” / “Mercutio spoke that last sentence in French” - The “little death” in French is “la petite mort” is a reference to the action of orgasming  
> ✧ “Didn’t ask, don’t care,” - the meme 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this! Idk what I’m gonna work on next. I think something kaemugi? I’m not sure though :P 
> 
> Also, my birthday is in two days! 
> 
> My other social media:  
> Instagram - @wormweeb   
> Tumblr - @antsu-in-my-pantsu (shitposts), @wormweeb (fandom stuff)  
> ♡ Love you all! ♡ Kudos and comments are appreciated! ♡


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